


Absolutely Definitely Proust

by DangersUntoldHardshipsUnnumbered



Series: Several General Danvers AUs in Tiny Hors D'oeuvre Form [5]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangersUntoldHardshipsUnnumbered/pseuds/DangersUntoldHardshipsUnnumbered
Summary: Astra is an English chef attending a cooking competition in Paris.  Alex is a competing French chef.  Unfortunately they discover this after they've already had a shag.





	Absolutely Definitely Proust

Astra woke up. Her head was foggy and her thoughts came slow and thick. She did not recognize the feel of this bed. Yes, of course, it was a hotel bed. She was in Paris.

But no, that was not the problem. There was someone next to her in the hotel bed. That should not be. Her sous chef, Megan, had her own bed. Eyes still closed, she tried to remember the night before. What had happened? 

Oh. She had gotten drunk. She needed coffee now, because this fog in her head hurt. Because it was a hangover.

This was not her hotel bed. Who was in the bed?

Astra opened her eyes. Oh, God. There she was. That pretty little French girl from the wine bar on Place St. Michel. Astra never, ever did this sort of thing. But the girl had given her a look like she wanted to eat her for breakfast lunch and dinner, tossing her short, dark hair out of her eyes, taunting her, addressing her as “Le Bambi” because Astra was hesitant to go home with her, “Le Rostbif” because Astra was an Englishwoman in Paris. That sort of tomboyish coquettery could not stand.Astra couldn’t possibly allow her to keep calling her Le Bambi. She had to go home with the girl, simply as a matter of pride.

What was her name? Lexie? It didn’t matter.

Disgusted with herself, Astra picked her way out of bed, trying not to wake the sleeping girl.She found herself a taxi in the still pale early morning light, and made her way back to the hotel, promising herself never to think about that girl again.

 

****

 

When she arrived, Megan was waiting for her in the lobby. She had already packed all of their things to go to the competition site, bearing a modest stack of black canvas zipped travel cases containing all their preferred tools on a small dolly with wheels. She was wearing her own chef’s whites and tossed Astra’s to her.“So?” she demanded.

“So what?” Astra feigned ignorance.

“So did you shag that little French bird?” Due to the strict kitchen heirarchy that Astra adhered to in her kitchen, it was inappropriate for her to fraternize much with the support staff, and so Megan, as her sous chef, was both best friend and right hand woman. As a result, Megan was annoyingly immune to Astra’s poor attempt at bullshit.

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Astra responded. “We discussed Proust all night.”

Megan snorted. Astra took her whites and quickly changed in the lobby bathroom. They had tobe at the Culinary Institute in less than forty five minutes. Astra was notoriously punctual and demanded the same of her staff, and she was certainly not going to be caught dead arriving late at a French cooking competition in which she was the only English chef invited to compete.

They hurried out the revolving glass doors of the front of the hotel and onto the cobblestone street, hailing a taxi from the thick stream of traffic crawling by.

 

 

******

 

Astra’s stomach growled. She was annoyed with herself for not having grabbed a crepe from one of the street stands.

They exited the taxi, pulling their cases from the trunk and loading them onto the dolly again. Astra looked up at the front of the building, the storied French Culinary Institute where Astra herself had completed her training nearly fifteen years ago. She had been one of the few women, and the only Brit, to graduate from her class. And, she had been top of her class, which was necessary as a matter of pride.

Still, the place loomed large, despite the building’s small size. The Insitute only accepted fifty students per year, and now Astra was voluntarily coming back to allow it to judge her again. Its arched windows and frilly cornices seemed to look down at her dubiously.

“You ready, Chef?” Megan asked, reflexively slipping into more formal attitude.

“Oui,” Astra answered. 

They wheeled their cases in through the front, checked in at the desk, and began the walk to the elevators that would take them to the test kitchens. 

“You’re walking funny,” Megan observed.

“I’m bloody not.”

“You’ve had a shag, Chef.”

“Shut it.”

“Is that Lucie Lenée?”

Astra peered at the small side room that Megan had indicated, where a conversation was taking place between an older chef that Astra recognized as one of her teachers, and a young woman whose face was vaguely familiar. A rock star chef in Paris, not an innovator but one regarded as the current standard-bearer of haute cuisine in France.

“Yes, I think so,” Astra said irritably.

They made their way into the large kitchen, which, save for a few updates, looked exactly as Astra remembered it: wide, with several stainless steel cooking stations and gleaming cooking surfaces waiting for the chefs to come and do their best. Or worst, as the case might well be.

They found the station that they had been assigned, and began unpacking their tools: whisks, knife set, herbes de provençe, immersion blender, and two bottles of English wine. Those were important. Astra, again as a matter of pride, had determined that she would win this competition cooking English food, and using English wine.

A voice came behind her, speaking French in a derisive tone. “Who in the world would bring English wine to a cooking competition in France?”

Astra spun around, preparing a rude rejoinder, when she was faced with the girl from last night. She was tidier, her hair combed a bit more neatly, and all those tattoos on her lower back and arms now covered by chef’s whites.

“Le Rostbif?” the girl exclaimed, her dark eyes widening. “What are you doing here?”

“Competing, mademoiselle,” Astra answered, trying to seem cool and distant. This effort was somewhat undercut by her terrible blushing. “What are you doing here?”

“The same,” she answered, seeming knocked off the tough, sassy stride that had probably been acohol-aided the night before. She too was flushing terribly and instead of feigning cool, she opted for arrogance. “Good luck with that. I’m sure you’ll need it with _English wine_.”And she walked away, tossing her chin length hair.

Megan unpacked a set of sous vide bags. Not looking up, she remarked, “Proust, was it?”

“Proust,” Astra answered firmly. “Absolutely definitely Proust.”

 


End file.
